


(the end of) what we used to know

by weasleyspotter



Series: Ward x Simmons Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2310728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weasleyspotter/pseuds/weasleyspotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She looks up at him, fully intent on brushing off his concern, because really, she’s fine. Physically fine, at least. But when she glances up into those oh so familiar brown eyes, she freezes. She stutters for a moment, because he’s here, standing in front of her, solid, alive. </p>
<p>He mistakes her silence for confusion. “Do you speak English?” He asks with a soft smile. </p>
<p>“I—.” She finds her voice. “Oh god,” she mumbles before she feels everything go dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(the end of) what we used to know

**Author's Note:**

> And a wild Sonika appears! Here's a fic that I think I've been working on since May, and that's not an indication of how long/good it is. It's an indication of how much writer's block I've had over the past few months. But I finally got some mojo and finished it, thank god! I wrote a little drabble a really long time ago on tumblr, like no one asked me to make it longer, but I've always wanted to write a memory loss Ward/Simmons fic, so here's another AU, from yours truly. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

i.

They send in Fitz to tell her. 

She wonders if they do that to soften the blow. Send in her best friend of many years to tell her the truth they all have come to believe, but she refuses to acknowledge. She loves Fitz, but she knows that he's the worst choice to deliver this kind of news to her. She's always been able to cut him down with a few well-placed words. 

“Jemma,” he pleads, his eyes are sparkling with unshed tears, "look at me, did you hear what I said?" 

She looks up at him, eyes blank, so unlike the way she had looked at him months ago, before everything. 

“Jemma, please,” he tries, feeling his stomach twist with anxiety at her state. "Stop, this isn't healthy." 

She tries to bring herself to say something to reassure him, anything. But she can't. Her mouth refuses to move on command. She stares straight forward, her eyes fixed on a point beyond him. For a moment he turns around, expecting to see something or even someone standing behind him. There's nothing. 

"Jemma," he steels himself, "He's dead. We have to accept that." 

"I don't," she finally says hoarsely. 

"And what you're doing to yourself, it's not healthy," Fitz continues, then stops and acknowledges what she said. "Wait, what?" 

"I don't accept that he's dead." She stares start forward at the wall, but her hands are balled in fists so tight, the skin stretching over her knuckles is white.

"Jemma," his voice takes on a note of pity, sadness etched into his face like wrinkles. "We are still searching for the body, but it's highly unlikely—.”

“Stop,” she says harshly, cutting him off. “I’m not asking for your help or your approval Fitz. He’s alive, and I’m not giving up on him. He would never give up on me.” 

“He wouldn’t want you to be like this,” Fitz looks at her sadly. His expression is distant, like he was comforting a stranger. She shudders away from it.

“Don’t,” she stops him, her eyes are flashing. “Don’t pretend you know what he would want.” 

He tries again, “Jemma—.” 

But she walks out before he can finish talking. 

ii.

She hands in her resignation letter to Coulson the next day. 

“Agent Simmons,” Coulson eyes the letter warily, placing it down neatly in front of him, as if he was handling a bomb. “Is this really what you want?” 

“I need to look for him, Sir,” she looks him dead on, “I can’t be focused on this team and him at the same time.” 

He sighs heavily, resisting the urge to lay his head down on the desk with agony. “There will always be a place for you on this team.” 

“I will come back with him,” she vows, turning to stride out of the room.

Coulson watches her, knowing that maybe he hadn't failed Grant by letting him die, but he definitely failed him by letting Jemma go.

iii.

They tell her this: He was supposed to come back. And it was also supposed to be a simple mission. 

They were both lies that Jemma had been led to believe. 

The truth was this: it was a complicated mission that involved him putting his life at risk with some very dangerous men. And he didn’t come back. 

Shield had written him off as another agent that they had lost in the war against Hydra. 

The Bus had searched leads for months before they slowly began to write him off, one by one. 

Not her, though, never her.

iv. 

She travels to Madrid first, then Rome, then Prague, and finally Paris. 

She feels like she’s about to go insane. Her bank account is running low, and she can’t help but hold onto the fleeting hope that one day she’ll turn the corner and he’ll be standing there. 

It’s her last night in Paris, she can’t afford anything more, she needs to go back to England, spend some time with her parents and regroup. And because it’s her last night, she stays out late, wandering the streets, looking for some sign of him. The photo she carries around of him crinkles in her pocket, worn down by the number of times she's taken it out to show people. It burns in her pocket and her eyes began to feel heavy with sleep.

She’s about to give up, to turn around and walk back to her hotel, when she bumps into something solid. 

“Whoa,” strong arms grasp her upper arms to steady her, “Est ce que vous allez bien?” 

She looks up at him, fully intent on brushing off his concern, because really, she’s fine. Physically fine, at least. But when she glances up into those oh so familiar brown eyes, she freezes. She stutters for a moment, because he’s here, standing in front of her, solid, alive. 

He mistakes her silence for confusion. “Do you speak English?” He asks with a soft smile, his chocolate eyes are filled with compassion, his arms tighten over hers, his familiar touch lights her on fire. And for the first time in months, she feels alive. 

“I—.” She finds her voice. “Oh god,” she mumbles before she feels everything go dark. 

v.

When she wakes up, unfamiliar sheets encase her, but his scent is all around her, and she instinctively knows where she is. 

She almost calls out to him sleepily, like before, but she gathers her wits before she can make a fool of herself. She blinks awake and takes in her surroundings. She’s in a loft style apartment overlooking Paris. It’s big, and with a fantastic view, and unless he’s become rich since she’s seen him, it’s a fantastic find. 

Her clothes from yesterday are rumpled and creased and she fights the urge to grab one of his shirts and slip it on, like before. 

She leaves his room, unsure on where he is, unsure if he even is here. For a moment, her hand hovers over the doorknob of what she assumes to be his bedroom and she considers that she might have finally cracked and simply imagined him yesterday night. Fear fills her and she wildly hopes that she's wrong, that last night was real. She pushes the door open and blinks rapidly as he comes into vision. 

He’s sitting on a couch in the living room reading a book. He looks up when she enters and smiles widely, his eyes seem to twinkle in the light. His posture is relaxed, and she's seen him like this so rarely that she almost doesn't recognize him at first. i 

It isn’t any easier to see him alive, the second time around.

“Hey,” he stands up and walks up to her, hands held loosely at his sides. “You’re up?”

“Er,” she stutters for a moment, because she doesn’t know how process the fact that he’s in front of her, she doesn't know what to say. “Yeah, I am.” 

“Are you feeling okay?” He looks concerned, and he looks so much like he did before, she wants to cry. 

She closes her eyes and breathes heavily, trying to regain some semblance of control. She feels dizzy, she can't get enough oxygen, and her head is swimming with thoughts. She was right, he was here, he was alive, he was different. 

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, wrapping his arms around her, trying to hold her upright as her legs give out. 

She leans her head against his broad chest listening to the sound of his pounding heart. Her mind focuses in on a single thought. He’s alive. Oh God, he’s alive. 

“Do you need to go to the Hospital?” His slightly panicky voice cuts through the haze. And she can feel him. His muscles are holding her stiffly against him, his chest is slightly angled away, as he tries to get a better look at her face to make sure she's not unconscious. His touch is both familiar and unfamiliar, and it makes her head swim, but she's too delighted to focus on that too much right now. 

“God no,” she pulls away from him, beaming at him. “I’m fantastic.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, staring at her intently, slightly concerned with her sudden mood swing. 

“I,” she pauses for a moment. “I don’t even know where to begin.” 

“The beginning is a good place,” his eyes narrow as he looks down at her. “Who are you?” 

She expects it, but it still stings. She realized it yesterday night when he didn’t recognize her. She knew it even before then, because unless he was trapped somewhere fighting to get back to her, she knew something must have happened to make him forget her. 

He forgot her. 

It takes a moment for the implications of that to sink in. 

She shakes that away, because he’s alive and she wants to focus on that. 

“I’m Jemma,” she introduces herself, blinking away the tears and smiling the brightest smile she’s ever mustered. “Jemma Simmons.” 

“Grant Ward,” he says in response. 

She’s gratefully that he knows his own name, because she doesn’t think she can call him something else. She almost wants to ask him how he knows his name, how much does he remember. Obviously not enough to contact his brother, who has been in constant contact with her. He doesn't remember her, obviously. But could he remember himself? The Bus?

“What are you doing in Paris?” He asks curiously, gesturing at the loveseat for her to sit down. 

She sits down quickly, a bit disappointed at the lack of contact between the two of them. “I was looking for something,” she says vaguely, staring at him, drinking him in, unable to take her eyes off of him. He was real, he was there. Realizing that he was staring at her strangely, she quickly clears her throat, “A part of myself, I suppose.” 

“Poetic,” he remarks with raised eyebrows. 

“Yeah,” she looks away, suddenly unable to face the familiar expression, it lacked the warmth and exasperation she remembered. 

When she doesn’t continue, he asks, “Did you find it? The part of yourself, I mean.” 

“Sort of.” She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I think I did, but it’s not the same.”

“Most things aren’t, once you’ve lost them.” He muses. Her heart pangs at that. There's a familiar note in his voice, and her eyes glance up to meet his face, but he looks so polite and closed off that she's sure she simply imagined it.

“I actually ran out of money, I was supposed to go home, but I can’t.” She’s sharing too much, but she can’t leave him behind, she can’t go home, and yet she can’t live here without money. “I missed my flight,” she says as clearly as she possibly can.

“You can stay here,” he says almost immediately. He looks surprised with himself for a moment, like he didn’t expect the response to come out so quickly. She waits for a moment for him to take it back, but although he looks slightly surprised, he doesn't retract the invitation. 

“I couldn’t impose on you,” she says softly, testing him to make sure that really means it.

“You want to stay in Paris right?” He continues when she nods vigorously. “Well I was looking for a roommate anyway, you’ve saved me the trouble of looking. You can stay here.” 

“Thank you so much, Grant,” she says, leaning towards him. “You have no idea how much this means to me.” 

“It’s no problem, Jemma.” Her name rolls off his tongue so easily, and she thinks that maybe she can’t have what they had before. But she’ll make something new, as long as she can have him. 

vi.

She doesn’t know how to ask about his past without startling him. 

So she reveals bit about hers, hoping that it prompts him to reveal a bit of his own. She makes spaghetti sauce and tells him that it is her mum’s old recipe, and he nods and smiles. She hands a book and tells her Dad recommended it to her, and he thanks her. She tells him a story about Fitz and he laughs at the right parts, but offers none of his own. 

She grows frustrated, but she reins it in. She can’t screw this up. She can’t lose him again. 

vii.

“Jemma,” he asks her one Saturday evening, as they’re sprawled out on the living room. She’s clicking from channel to channel aimlessly, and he’s buried in a book. He’s looking at her ring finger now though, “I,” he pauses for a moment, the words rolling off his tongue awkwardly, as if trying to form the right words. “Is that?” 

“It’s a wedding ring, Grant,” she says as lightly as she can, her entire body is tense, as if she's prepared to jump off the couch at a moment's notice. 

“A wedding ring?” He asks dumbly, as if she just hit him over the head with that news. 

“Yes, a symbol of eternal commitment between two people, that sort of thing.” She trails off. She tries to maintain an aura of nonchalance, but she's staring at him too intently. 

“You’re married?” He clarifies, putting his book down slowly. 

“I am,” she confirms, “Or I was.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “My husband,” she says softly. “He’s been missing for awhile, everyone thinks he’s dead.” 

“Oh,” Grant says softly, his hands clasp hers. “Jemma, I’m sorry.” 

“No, no,” she dismisses, because it’s getting too morbid for her tastes. She's discussing her missing husband with her husband. “It’s fine.” 

“No, I shouldn’t have pushed the subject,” he explains, avoiding her gaze. His eyes are thoughtful and for a moment she desperately wants to know what thoughts are swimming in his head.

“Grant,” she says sharply, drawing his attention to her. “Really it’s fine.” 

He’s quiet for a few moments, again looking thoughtful. “Did you love him?” 

“More than anything,” she replies almost automatically, like it was a reflex. 

“Do you think you’ll ever love anyone else?” His face is curious, and she can tell that he's trying too hard to make the question casual, but there's a burning curiosity in his eyes that she's never really seen before.

She eyes him, “I don’t know if I can.” 

He doesn’t speak after that. 

viii.

She finds out little things after that. 

He works at a security-consulting firm, a job in which he is slowly rising through the ranks. She gets a job at a café near by (she never thought she’d be waiting tables with two Ph.Ds under her belt), and spends lunches hanging out with her. 

He mentions one day that he’s good with guns, really good, and that his superiors joke that he could have been a spy in another life. 

(That comment stings.) 

She brings it up ever so casually because she can’t wait any longer. “You know, you never told me about your parents?” 

His face suddenly turns solemn and he says, “Jemma, there’s something you should know.” 

ix.

He doesn’t remember anything. 

He tells the story simply, he woke up one day in a hospital in Prague. Apparently someone found him bleeding out in an alley, and he had nearly died. Instead he made it to the hospital with only a passport for identification that the Police couldn’t verify, because there was no evidence of a Grant Ward in the world. 

He doesn’t remember anything before that, no family, no her. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, placing a hand over his. 

“It’s not your fault,” he looks taken aback at her apology. 

“No,” she says softly in agreement. “But I’m still sorry that happened to you.” 

“The only thing that bothers me is that there’s no trace of the person I used to be. What sort of person is wandering the streets of Prague at night with fake identification? I don’t even know if Grant Ward is my real name.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. 

“I,” she trails off. She wants to tell him that it is. He deserves that much, at least. But she can't, not without reveling herself. 

He shakes his head suddenly. “I’m sorry for unloading on you. It’s been a difficult few months.” 

“I can only imagine.” She says reeling from his admission. 

“Ready to go home?” He offers. 

She nods. 

x.

It’s difficult to realign this version of Grant with her Grant. 

This Grant is kinder, lighter. Not weighed down by the burdens of his past. He smiles easily and laughs at her antics without a rueful look. He apologizes first, and jokes about things. She considers sending videos of him to Skye to confirm that it really was him, not some strange doppelganger. 

There are parts of him that remain the same. He still walks up early in the morning, running on some internal clock that she can’t sync up with. He reads Russian literature with a passion. He still lights up when she walks into the room. 

She still loves him, no matter what version of him, he is. 

xi.

She avoids everyone, until the guilt piles up and she picks up when Skye calls her for what feels like the millionth time. 

“Hey,” she says quietly, hoping he won’t overhear her in the other room. 

“Simmons,” Coulson’s voice is sharp on the other end. “Where are you?” 

“Sir?” She stares at her phone for a moment. “I—.” 

“Jemma,” Skye’s voice breathless chimed in next. “You’re on speaker phone.” 

“Oh,” she casts her eyes downward. “I’m sorry for not picking up your phone calls.” 

“Just tell us where you are,” Fitz pleads. 

“I’m fine,” she assures them, “I’m with Grant.” 

The silence on the other end is deafening. 

“What?” Skye asks brokenly. Skye had taken Grant's disappearance the hardest after Jemma, but she had accepted it easier.

“Simmons,” May’s voice comes through firmly. “What are you saying?” 

“He’s alive, I found him.” She still can’t believe the words that are coming through her mouth. 

“Are you sure?” Coulson asks. 

“I did a DNA test, if you’re asking,” she confirms, almost angrily. “It’s him.” 

“Where has he been?” Skye’s voice is laced with relief and anger. 

“He doesn’t remember.” She closes her eyes as she says it. “He doesn’t remember anything. That’s why he didn’t come back.” 

“Like amnesia?” Fitz asks. 

“I suppose. I don’t want to frighten him, by asking too much,” she says slowly. 

There’s a pause, and she can hear the murmured voices of the group in the background as they discuss what she told them.

“We’ll follow your lead Simmons,” Coulson says decisively. “Let us know what you need.” 

“Thanks,” she says as her door opens, he’s standing in the doorway holding up a DVD. 

“Hey,” he doesn’t notice her on the phone, because he’s looking down at the case. “Want to watch—?” He looks up at her and his eyes widen. “Oh I’m sorry, I’ll just—.” 

“No,” she cuts him off. “I’m almost done, I’ll be right out.” 

He nods and closes the door. 

“I’ve got to go,” she says before hanging up. 

xii. 

Some days she thinks that he might like her. 

She feels like a teenaged girl trying to decipher a boy’s mixed signals. But he looks at her, like the way that he used to in the beginning of their relationship. A look of tentative curiosity that melts her heart. 

But still he keeps his distance. His touch never lingers, he jokes around with her, but never flirts. And the looks vanish within a few minutes and fade into a sincere smile. 

Sometimes she loves the idea of him liking her, but sometimes it makes her sick to her stomach. He’s her husband. He should be in love with her. He should be with her. 

She doesn’t want some watered down version of him, she wants him. 

But then she remembers those torturous few months where she lost him. She’d rather have this broken, incomplete version of him, than nothing. 

xiii.

“I think I can,” she says suddenly one day as she sits on the counter of their kitchen watching him chop up vegetables for dinner.

(He still loves to cook.) 

He looks at her curiously, hand stalled above a half chopped tomato. “You can what?” 

“Love again,” she clarifies. “You asked me if I could ever love again after my husband? I think I can.” She chokes a bit at the end because she knows that admitting that means moving on, truly letting go of whom Grant Ward used to be and embracing who he is now.

His answering smile is worth it. 

xiv.

It goes unspoken, but their relationship changes after their admission. 

They don’t kiss or define themselves. But he holds her hand when they go outside, and she cuddles up to him when they are sitting on the couch. His hand lingers over her cheek, and she leans into him whenever he's close by.

He still sleeps in his bed and she in hers, but some days they fall asleep tangled on the couch and those are the best. 

xv.

He takes her out on dates, each one more special than the last. 

They had never gone on dates before. Their work on the Bus hadn’t allowed much time for outings. Their entire relationship was informal. In fact their nicest outing was their wedding, a beach side affair off the coast of California. 

He spends time picking out their next date now. One day he takes her to a small park and packs a picnic with small bite size sandwiches and chocolate covered strawberries. Then the next, he buys her an extravagant dress and they eat dinner at Eiffel Tower. 

“I want to try something,” he asks at the end of the night. 

“What?” She looks up at him with bright sparkling eyes. She’s happy, so so happy. 

He leans down and kisses her. It’s curious and soft, and he pulls away after a few seconds. “Wow,” he breathes out, resting his forehead against her head. 

“Yeah,” she smiles and takes his hand, leading him back home. 

xvi.

“I think I might love you,” he murmurs in her ear one day. 

She turns towards him in shock. “Grant,” she murmurs back, the return phrase burning on the tip of her tongue. It would be so easy to say those three words. She’s said them so many times before, but this time would be different because he doesn’t remember the times in the past, this was his first time. 

He places a finger on her lip. “You don’t have to say it back,” he assures her. “I just needed you to know.” 

“Grant,” she pulls his finger away. “I love you too.” 

He kisses her and everything is wonderful. 

But there’s a pang in her heart that she cannot ignore. 

She misses him, even when he’s standing right in front of her. 

xvii.

She gets home late one day, and finds him sitting in her room with a box open in front of him holding a photo frame. The words of greeting die on her lips and she stares at him open-mouthed. She panics because he’s got her Grant box open and he’s look at a photo of them at their wedding. 

“I was looking for your copy of Crime and Punishment,” he murmurs softly, staring at the photo intently when he notices her. “Jemma, what is this?” 

Her mouth is dry and she can’t seem to find the words. “Grant,” she says softly, pleadingly. 

“Did we know each other?” He asks intently. His eyes are wide and crazed with an emotion she can’t decipher. “Tell me,” he urges her. 

“Grant.” She needs him to notice, to catch on faster; she can’t actually say the words. “Look at the photo, really look.” 

He stares at the photo again, and she sees the horrid realization wash over him. “I was your husband?” He drops the photo to the ground with a clatter. 

“Grant, please,” she inches towards him, hands held out in front of her. 

“No,” he scrambles away from her. “Why didn’t you say something? You said your husband died.” 

“I know,” she says quietly, “But I couldn’t risk scaring you away. Grant, I couldn’t lose you again. Do you know what you did to me the first time you left?” 

“No,” he shakes his head furiously, his face is alight with an expression she’d never seen directed at her, “because I don’t remember anything. God Jemma,” he runs a hand through his hair, “I always thought something was off between us, but I thought it was because you were still in love with your husband, I just didn’t realize he was me.” 

“Grant, just try to remember.” She strides towards him, placing her hands on his chest. 

He throws them off, “Don’t you think I’ve tried? I spent hours in that hospital in Prague just trying to remember who I was. Don’t you think if I knew I had a wife, I would have come looking for you? You knew,” he closes his eyes. “You knew this whole time, and you let me look like an idiot.” 

She recoils like he slapped her. “No,” she shakes her head furiously, “That’s not what I wanted.” 

“I just can’t—.” He strides out the door. “I can’t right now.” 

“Grant,” she cries after him, watching as he walked right out the door, slamming it behind him.

xviii.

She waits up all night for him, but he doesn’t show. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she wails on the phone to Skye the next morning. 

“It’s going to be fine,” Skye soothes her. “May has already turned around the plane. We’ll be there soon. We’ll help you look for him. And we’ll help you explain everything.” 

“What if he doesn’t want an explanation?” It's the fear that swirls in her chest all night. What if he left? Not wanting an explanation, not wanting to see any reminders of his old life. 

“Then we’ll force him back. We’re not letting him get away this time, Jemma.” Skye assures her. “This is probably for the best. He needs to come to his senses soon, you can’t keep living this way. He needed to know the truth.” 

Suddenly the front door opens, and he is standing on the other side, looking at bit sheepish and exhausted. 

“I’ve got to go,” Jemma says quickly, breathlessly into the receiver, hanging up, with the sound of Skye’s protests in the background. “Hey,” she greets him wearily, not sure if she should be purely relieved at his reappearance or slightly angry that he left in the first place.

“Hey,” he says huskily, hands tucked into his pockets, staring straight at the ground. 

He looks so pitiful that she settles on relief.

“I’m glad you’re home.” The questions are bubbling on her lips and she just wants to ask where he’s been, but she restrains herself. 

“Look,” he says slowly, continuing to avoid her eyes. “I know that you want to talk about everything but I really need a shower.” 

“Of course,” she says meekly, backing down almost instantly. 

He eyes her nervously, as if not sure if she truly meant it. “Just give me a moment,” he spits out quickly before ducking out of the room. 

She has lost him already. She could feel it. She closed her eyes and let the feeling of loss wash over her again. Tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes, as she struggled to reign in her emotions. She needed to be strong, for him. Even if he didn’t know or remember, she owes him that much. 

xix.

She is sitting on the couch with her box of Grant’s things in front of her when he came back into the living room. He recoils when he sees the box, but still takes a few tentative steps towards her. 

“I thought you’d want to know about your past,” she says simply when he’s standing beside her. He nods and sits beside her. She continues, “I know it was wrong to hide your past from you. You have to understand; I didn’t know what to do when I found you. Everyone thought you were dead.” 

“What happened?” He interrupts. He glances downward for a moment, a shy gesture so unlike her Grant, before he looks up at her again, determinedly. “Why did everyone think I was dead?” 

“Before you disappeared,” she says delicately, not sure how much she should reveal. He is technically still an agent, even had more clearance than she did. But Shield didn’t have protocols for agents that lost their memory. “We worked for a government agency. It’s top secret. You were on a mission. I don’t know what it was about, I didn’t have clearance to know. You went missing towards the end, and after a few months of searching,” she exhales soundly, “you were presumed dead.” 

“But I wasn’t,” he concludes simply. 

“I couldn’t believe it,” she admits. “I just kept looking for you, until I bumped into you that night.” She inhales deeply. “I know I should have told you, but I didn’t know how you were going to react. And I couldn’t risk losing you again. So I knew that if you remembered, you remembered. But if you didn’t, I could make a new life with you.” 

“Jemma,” he sighs out, he opens his mouth to say more, but she cuts him off quickly. 

“Look, Grant,” she slides towards him, clasping his hands in hers. “I know this is a lot to take in, and I want to help you try to remember, or we could just forget the past, start over, whatever you want. But I can’t lose you again, I can’t.” A few tears slip out of the corner of her eyes. She raises a hand to swipe at them viciously, furious at herself for breaking down a little in front of him. 

He beats her to it, though. Tenderly swiping away at her tears. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs before pulling her to him.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs into his chest. “It’s completely okay.” 

xx.

Even though things settle down somewhat, the team insists on coming to Paris to a visit.

(Things aren’t good, not by a longshot. Grant still won’t look at her in the eye for a long period of time, and she still tiptoes around the subject of his memory for free of scaring him off.)

“We used to work with these people,” he stands awkwardly on the tarmac next to her, “on a plane, that we called the bus.” 

“It was a very large plane,” she explains weakly, as the Bus pulls up next to them. 

He stares at it with large wide eyes, murmuring something that sounds like No Kidding softly under his breath. The door lowers and Skye and Fitz come tumbling out screaming at Jemma. Filled with happiness at seeing her friends again, she races into their arms. 

When the hellos are over, she turns around and looks at Grant who is still standing a few paces ahead, watching them all with wide eyes. 

Skye breaks free of their group and walks towards Grant. She wraps him up in a big hug. 

“It’s good to see you, hardass,” she pulls away and shoves him teasingly. 

It breaks the tension (for everyone except Grant who still stands stiff as a board in Skye’s embrace), and the rest of the team swarms him with “I’m glad you’re not dead” (Fitz) and “It’s good to see you again” (Coulson), and silence from May who simply observes Grant. 

Grant shoots her a pleading look and she feels her heart pang. Her Grant would have been prying Skye off him, ruffling Fitz’s hair affectionately “Because you really think I would just die like that”, answering Coulson’s questions, all while shooting her subtle smiles. 

“We should get going,” she pipes up, avoiding everyone’s eyes, “Grant’s got work. But we’ll see you all today evening?” 

Fitz and Skye shoot her disappointed looks, but it’s May that excuses them with understanding looks. 

“Are you okay?” She asks when they’re out of earshot. 

He simply nods. 

xxi.

“So,” he trails off awkwardly in the car. “Skye, Fitz, Coulson, and May.” 

“You were Skye’s S.O., Fitz was my best friend, Coulson was our supervisor, and May,” Jemma repeats again softly. “May flies the Bus.” 

He nods slowly. 

She reaches out a hand towards him. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, pulling his own hand away. “I’m really not.” 

xxii.

Dinner is awkward, at first. Grant refuses to loosen up, his eyes dart from person to person around the table. Jemma sits by his side loyally, fielding questions and changing the subject when it needs to be changed. May is silent, staring at Grant intently. Coulson is mild, talking about things like the weather or Parisian tourist sites. Fitz and Skye press for more information or crack jokes that Grant doesn’t understand anymore, and every time they open their mouths Grant tenses up just a little more, until he’s wound up so tightly that Jemma’s sure that if she presses down on him just a little, he’s spring right back up. 

The team looks hesitant to leave. They stand in the foyer huddled around Jemma, while Grant shuffles around in the kitchen doing the dishes. 

After they say their goodbyes, May remains behind, asking a moment of her time. 

“He needs to go back into the field,” May says without preamble. 

Catching on quickly, Jemma shakes her head, “I can’t force him to do that. I don’t even think I want him to go back.” 

“If you want your Grant back, you need to bring him back to Shield. It’s the only way. Shield was a big part of him, always will be. You can’t keep him away from that.” May says finally, before walking out their front door. 

xxiii.

“Do you want to know about Shield?” She asks him one night, after the team had left and May’s thoughts still weigh heavily on her mind. 

“Shield?” He looks at her curiously, an expression of hope dawning on his face. “I thought you couldn’t tell me about that.” 

“I talked to Coulson,” she stretches the truth a tiny bit. “It’s okay.” 

Coulson’s words had actually been to keep the information as minimal as possible, but that didn’t matter right now. 

“Okay,” he shifts in his seat. “Yeah.” 

“It stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.” She starts off. 

“Someone really wanted the initials to spell shield,” he remarks wryly. 

She ignores the comment and continues. “You were a specialist. And a really good one.” 

“What does that mean?” He interjects curiously. 

“You did a variety of things, but your main job on the team was to protect the team and serve in missions. You were well versed in combat skills, surveillance, infiltration,” she lists off. 

“Like a secret agent?” His eyebrows furrowed in distaste. “James Bond?” 

“Not exactly,” she said slowly, smiling at the image of the slick, pressed British agent. “But similar, I guess.” 

He nods slowly, his eyes looking around the room. 

“Is it too much?” She asks nervously. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “I just,” he trails off, a strange expression crosses over his face. 

“What?” She asks him curiously.

“I just wish I could remember,” 

xxiv.

Things never go back to normal, but they settle into a routine. 

Grant continues to work, and she leaves her job at the café, going back to Shield. She does consult work, which allows her to remain at home most of the time. But there are the days that she’s asked to visit a site or spend a day in the lab. 

Those days she gets home late and Grant is already asleep, dinner’s waiting on the table, and she eats alone. She wonders if he would have waited up for her if he didn’t know the truth, but she banishes that thought from her head. 

The days she comes home earlier than expected, she finds him sitting on the couch, books sprawled out around him. He looks up at her, startled when she walks through the door. She only realizes why when she glances at the familiar books. Shield manuals, she realizes, with a sinking feeling in her chest. She manages a small smile at him before she darts into her room to calm her racing chest. 

Things between them are strange. She worries when he doesn’t look at her. He avoids her eyes most of the time, barely speaking to her. 

“I love you,” she tries one evening. 

He stares at her, sadness painted across his face. “I know,” he says softly, before ducking out of the room. 

xxv.

“Do you think I’m ready?” 

She stands in the doorway, frozen at the sound of his voice. She knows he’s not talking to her, and she pauses for a moment. 

“I don’t remember anything,” he says softly, his voice tinged with sadness. “Jemma’s been telling me about Shield, but I don’t remember what I used to do.” 

May, she decides, he has to be talking to May. 

“I would like to,” he says slowly, as if he was weighing his words. “How long would I be gone for?” 

She slumps against the door. He’s leaving. He’s leaving her. 

“Okay,” he says quickly, she wonders if he heard the sound of her thudding against the door. “I’ll leave tomorrow. Thank you.” 

His voice fades away as a roaring takes over her ears. He’s leaving her, she repeats to herself. She failed. She failed him. 

There's a patter of footsteps and then his voice calls out, nearer than before. “Jemma,” his voice calls over her worriedly, his hands clutching her shoulders, pulling her back to the present. “Jemma,” his hands tighten on her shoulders. 

She pulls out of his grasp. “When do you leave tomorrow?” The words escape her mouth before she can stop them. She can't help the tone of betrayal that seeps into her voice. 

His face blanches. He looks at her for a moment, as if trying to decide what to say. “Six in the morning,” he says finally, eyes still searching hers. 

“Okay,” she says slowly. 

“Jemma,” he tries again, taking a step towards her. 

“No,” she says firmly, stopping him instantly. “I just,” she tries to paste a smile on her face. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” 

She doesn’t give him a moment to respond as she flees from the room. 

xxvi. 

He stands in the doorway, a single black suitcase sitting at his feet. 

It’s 6:30 and she realizes that he waited for her. It should warm her heart. 

It doesn’t. 

“I hope you have a good trip,” she says flatly. Her hands twist in knots, she had left her room late purposely, hoping that he would leave without saying goodbye. 

“Jemma,” he says slowly. “I’m not leaving forever, I just,” he trials off, running his hands thorugh his hair, a nervous gesture she doesn’t recognize on him. “ I need some time to think. And,” he tries, "Coulson asked me to handle this personally." 

She nods quickly. “You need space, I understand.” 

His face fills with gratitude. 

“That’s why I’ll be gone by the time you get back.” She continues, saying the words like she had rehearsed the night before.

Panic colors his face. “What? No. You don’t have to leave.” 

She shrugs, feeling too apathetic to be discussing leaving her husband. “I need to get back to the bus. I’ve spent too much time away from my job. Besides, you don’t need my help anymore.” 

“Jemma.” Pain laces through his voice. “That isn’t how it is.” 

“I shouldn’t have tried to keep you here,” Jemma admits, “I should have taken May’s advice and let you go back to Shield.” 

He falls silent at that. 

“You should go,” she says finally. Her voice wavering slightly, and wonders if she can keep up her rigid posture much longer.

He stares at her for a moment, unsure of what to say. Finally he turns and walks out of the room, leaving Jemma alone. 

xxvii.

He gets back. 

She’s gone.

xxviii.

“Do you miss him?” 

Skye and Fitz trade off following her around the Bus worriedly. They shield her from news of Ward. Every time a conversation revolves around him, they quickly change the subject or steer her out of the room. Fitz is more eager to not talk about Grant, but Skye approaches the subject head on every time she gets the opportunity. 

Jemma looks at Skye, her expression is strategically blank. 

“Miss him?”

Skye huffs, “Do you miss Grant?” 

“Yes,” Jemma says simply. “I miss my husband.” 

It’s true. She misses Grant, her Grant. It’s like a stomachache, it constantly pangs at her. But her husband and Ward are now two different people. She tries to think about it like that. Grant was her husband. Ward was her superior. 

(She tries not to think of the precious few months they spent together in Paris.) 

She listens to the few bits of information about him that she can manage to hear. He’s making a name for himself in Shield, again. He quickly regains his skills, and burying himself in mission after mission. Everyone refers him to as Ward, though. As if he is a separate entity from Grant. 

“Oh,” Skye says quietly. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Skye says, her voice an attempt at casual. “It’s just something I overheard, but it’s nothing. Probably.” 

Jemma’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” 

“It’s just that,” Skye says slowly. “I think Ward requested a transfer. Some people think he might have requested to be shifted back to the Bus.” 

The breath leaves her chest, like Skye kicked her in the chest. “What?” She clutches onto the metal table in front of her, struggling to remain upright.

“It’s just a rumor.” Skye assures her. “I’m sure it’s not true.” 

Jemma nods along, trying to soothe her erratic breathing. “Just a rumor,” she mumbles numbly. 

xxix.

“It is a rumor right?” 

She overhears Skye’s whisper through the paper-thin walls of her bunk. Skye and Fitz had been trying to hide their relationship from Jemma, she wasn’t sure why, but the walls had given them away. 

Fitz is silent for a moment too long. 

“Fitz?” Skye’s voice is laced with panic. 

“I don’t know,” he says finally, gruffly. “They’re pretty persistent rumors.” 

“Why would he come back?” Skye whines. “He doesn’t even remember her.” 

Jemma flinches at the reminded. Her eyes flit over to the picture of the both of them, still sitting on her nightstand. She wishes for him wildly. To wake up in their bed, for this to be a nightmare, for his arms to be around her again, to hear his voice again. 

Fitz answers Skye so quietly that Jemma’s not sure she hears him correctly. She strains to make sense of the words. 

“Maybe he wants to.” 

xxx.

Jemma finally corners May. 

“I need to know the truth.” 

May appraises her silently. Jemma resists the urge to falter under the woman’s piercing gaze. May had been the only one in contact with Ward since he had left Jemma in Paris. Jemma had been steadily avoiding May, knowing that May would not accidentally offer any information, but her presence would remind Jemma of what she lost. 

“What exactly do you want to know?” May says finally. 

Jemma’s grateful that May gives her an opportunity to filter the information. For a moment she struggles to place her desires. She wants to know a lot. How he’s doing, what he’s been up to, does he miss her? 

“Is he coming back?” She asks finally.

May looks at her, a strange expression of pity darkens her face. 

“Of course he is.” She says, before walking away, leaving Jemma with more questions than answers. 

xxxi.

He starts at the bottom of the hanger, in a suit, walking up the ramp with a bag slung over his shoulder. She steadily avoids his gaze, bustling around the lab. 

It’s like the first time. 

“FitzSimmons?” He asks curiously. 

And her heart pangs at the sound of his voice. She tries not to turn around as his eyes burn into her back. She wonders if he assumed they were one person, like the last time. Or he was doing it on purpose? Had someone told him? 

Fitz answers perfectly, like the last time. “I’m Fitz,” he points to himself, “And she’s Simmons.” 

Their eyes meet. She holds out her hand shakily, meeting his gaze. And he takes it slowly. 

“It’s good to see you,” he says quietly, not shaking her hand, but not letting it go either. His brown eyes are burning with questions she doesn't know the answers to. 

She doesn’t meet his gaze again. 

xxxii.

Things go back to the way they were before. 

She avoids him steadily. It’s easy enough, because he stays away from the lab. When they are forced to interact, she treats him like any other coworker. 

He’s stoic, again, and Skye complains about him a lot, dropping her complaints only when Jemma is within earshot. 

“I mean,” Skye’s voice floats towards Jemma from the lab doorway. “It’s like he’s got a rod stuck up his ass. He wasn’t like this before.” Her voice trails off. 

Jemma steps through the doorway and Fitz and Skye look up at her guiltly. 

“I’ve got to go,” Skye rushes out, jumping off the lab table. “See you,” she says with a meaningful glance at Fitz. “Hey Jemma,” she says hurriedly as she passes Jemma out of the door. 

Fitz remains silent for a moment as Jemma settles into her workstation. 

“Jemma,” he says slowly, “we need to talk.” 

It’s like before. The nervousness in his voice, the way he busies his hands with inventions so he has an excuse not to meet his eyes, and she flashes back to that day he pushed her to leave the Bus to search for Grant. 

She turns towards him. 

“Ward,” Fitz swallows thickly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you both to be on the Bus together. Skye doesn’t either. It’s not healthy.” 

“Are you suggesting either of us resign?” Jemma asks, keeping her tone perfectly neutral. It wasn't an option, Fitz knew better.

Fitz’s eyes widen in surprise. “No,” he shakes his head for emphasis. 

“Then what’s your point,” Jemma snarls at Fitz. “Because I am trying to do the best that I can.” 

“Jemma,” Fitz takes a step towards her, his voice soothing, his hands floundering in the air. “I just mean that maybe you should settle things between the two of you, if you want to move on.” 

“Move on?” Her voice strangles at the idea. 

“Skye thinks that maybe it’s time for both of you to move on. You deserve to be happy, so does Ward.” Fitz rushes out. “And there’s only one way to do that.” 

“You want me to divorce him?” Jemma’s voice comes out numbly. Her mind is racing and her voice sounds very far away, as if she was physically disconnected from the conversation. 

Fitz looks uncomfortable as he nods. “It might be a good first step.” 

“Okay,” Jemma says simply, standing up. For a second she worries that her legs would crumble beneath, and Fitz seemed to share that worry because he took a step towards her, arms outreached. But she stepped away from him. “If you’ll excuse me, I have something to do.” 

“Jemma,” Fitz took another step towards, his voice dripping with pity. 

Jemma turns and darts out of the room. 

xxxiii.

She pauses only when she gets to his door. 

In the beginning she had always been unsure about going into his bunk. His sparse bunk always reminded her of a hotel, bare and cold. She had much preferred spending time in her own bunk and he had always succumbed to her wishes. 

She rocks backwards on her heels and taps lightly on the door, half-hoping that he wouldn’t open the door. 

The door slips open and he’s standing on the other side of the, his hair slightly damp. His eyes widen at the sight of her. “Jemma,” he breathes out, startled at her appearance, after weeks of avoidance.

“We need to talk,” Jemma rushes out, before her resolve can leave her. 

He eyes her for a moment, before stepping aside to let her through the door. 

She steps into his room. It’s the same in many ways. He still has the same charcoal gray sheets and the same electric clock in the corner. But there’s something else on his nightstand. A small photo frame. A photo of both of them, she realizes. 

She stiffens at the sight, but she doesn’t let it waver her. 

“Skye and Fitz think we should get a divorce.” She blurts out, sitting softly on his bed, feeling much too comfortable in his room. 

He stiffens, but he doesn’t look as surprised as she expects him to be. “I know,” he says quietly, “Skye already talked to me about it. She thinks that I should let you move on.” 

There’s an expression on his face that she recognizes well. Pain. 

She softens. “I’m not sure if I want to move on.” She admits finally, “But I can’t keep living like this.” She gestures between the two of them.

He crosses the room and sits beside her. “I’m sorry I left,” he says finally. “I’ve regretted it since I stepped outside our door.” 

She nods finally. It doesn’t make her feel any better. Maybe once, it would have, but not now. 

“I’m sorry I pushed you to remember,” she admits, “I didn’t meant to put pressure on you.” 

It’s something she’s been thinking about. She keeps wondering why he felt the need to leave, and it’s the only conclusion she can come to. She’s been stifling him and he needed a break. 

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I really want to be him again,” he admits quietly. 

Her heart breaks. “You are him.” She reassures him. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “I’m not. And you kept looking at me expectedly, as if you kept expecting me to say something else, do something else. And every time I didn’t do what you expected, your face would fall. I couldn’t take disappointing you. That’s why I left. May suggested that by going out into the field, I might find a piece of myself.” 

“Did you?” She manages to keep her tone neutral. 

“Maybe,” he looks unsure. “It was familiar, like a past life or something. But I,” he shrugs. “I kept wanting to come back to you.” 

Her entire body warms. “I missed you too.” 

“I know I’m not him,” he says slowly, “I know that you’re furious with me, and I’m not good enough. But,” he swallows thickly. “I love you.” 

He says the words like the mean everything, and they do. “I love you too,” she says slowly, measuring every word carefully. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself.” 

“Even if I never remember?” His tone is wry, almost angry at himself. 

She clasps his hands tightly in hers. “Even if you never do. You’re still Grant, and I’ll always love you.” 

And for the first time, she really, truly means it.

xxxiv. 

He never remembers. 

Not entirely. 

Some days are better than others, things come to him easier. He looks at her with that same spark. He says something off-handed to Skye and Fitz that he wasn’t supposed to remember and they spend hours scouring through his memory for any semblance that he’s regaining his old memories.

Some days are worse. He’ll smile at her differently, and she’ll flinch. Or he says something that just isn’t him and Skye makes an uncouth joke at it. Or he broods when she thinks he shouldn’t and he doesn’t when she thinks he should. 

They learn to love each other again. 

He falls in love with her love. The way she cares for him, believes in him, sees the best in him. He loves watching her in the lab, the way her eyes spark with enthusiasm, even if she’s preforming the most routine tasks. 

She falls in love with him. He’s different. Still strong and protective, but there’s something lighter about him. The way he carries himself is entirely different. He still cares though. He doesn’t remember his younger brother, but he still calls Mikey regularly to check up on him. 

More importantly, he’s still Grant, and even memories can’t change that.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope it was worth the read. I'm a little unsure about this one, so please kudos and comment if you enjoyed! Thanks lovelies!


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